


we were never ordinary

by Wander (yoimwander)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM Undertones, Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Domestic, Emotional Baggage, Empathy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modeling, Oral Sex, Pets, Power Dynamics, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Slow Burn, eddie gluskin realizing he has feelings, fashion enthusiast eddie, oh god feelings suck, romanticizing sociopathy, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:42:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29347587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoimwander/pseuds/Wander
Summary: Eddie doesn't need to adopt an Empath. Nearly two decades ago, his head was scanned at the typical processing age of twenty-one, and he'd been released into the adult world with an S2 pass—with covetous brain waves that lack unsightly empathetic impulses.By his very nature, intrinsically, he does not need or desire companionship.But when he sees Waylon through the glass, E4 badge stuck firmly to the lapel of a plain shirt, indicating the poor thing's inability to control a brokenly empathetic brain, and wild eyes pinning him to the spot, Eddie thinks.Well.It might be interesting, in the very least.
Relationships: Eddie Gluskin/Waylon Park
Comments: 15
Kudos: 57





	we were never ordinary

**Author's Note:**

> I'm excited to share this idea with you, but I want to have a "disclaimer" of sorts. This world takes an idea of sociopathy (based on info about ASPD) and … runs with it. Pretty damn far. It simplifies signs of ASPD (physical and psychological) into pure fiction.
> 
> Basically, WWNO takes the stigma of one way of thinking, and places that stigma on the opposite end. ASPD is a complicated disorder. It's a spectrum more than a checkbox. There are plenty of people who have learned to live healthy lives with its effects, and plenty of people who haven't. WWNO romanticizes it. This is _not_ meant to downplay the real and terrible hurt some people have dealt with by someone with ASPD.
> 
> Calling it "sociopathy" is a stylistic choice. This is a dystopian-esque world. Some of the wording that makes up this world is abrasive.
> 
> Alright, with that said, I really hope you like the story! If you ever wanna drop by and say hello, you can find me on Twitter @yoimwander. I'm kind of an awkward bean, but aren't we all?
> 
> Sidenote: If you catch the Brave New World reference, I'll love you forever. :3
> 
> Other sidenote: For anyone following my other story, _Aberration_ , I'm still working on chapters for that! WWNO is just an idea I couldn't get out of my head, and when I started writing it, it just continued to grow.
> 
> —

_When he turns 21, this is what they tell him:_

You were born with an anomaly in your brain. Certain things that should not connect, do. You are erratic. Unstable. You are not fit for society. You are a danger to more integrated individuals. 

(Translation: people who are better than him.)

You cry, often.

(He doesn't think he cries that often, only when he's very sad, or very happy.)

Your brain was pinged as a potential cause for concern during your initial scan.

(He was five years old and the knocking of the MRI machine had frightened one of his classmates. He consoled her and felt a little scared, too, when it was his turn and they laid him on that moving table and told him to hold still.)

We have given you every opportunity to develop a healthier relationship with your brain. And yet, you still make these connections. You still feel too strongly for others. You are helplessly swayed by what you think they feel. Your behavior is unpredictable and the furthest thing from controlled.

(They tell him to stand up straight, as they have told him for many years now, and Waylon barely flinches when his stoic-faced Handler reaches her hands out with no preamble to pin a circular metal emblem on the lapel of his plain white shirt.)

You are an Empath, Level 4.

(This shouldn't surprise him. He's always known this, somewhere deep beneath muscle and bone. But it scares him. Like the knocking of the MRI, it scares him.)

You have been deemed unable to exhibit agency in your daily life.

(He wakes up in the Transient, a squat grey building of only thirty-four stories, every morning and makes his own coffee. He piles dirty clothes in a basket and greets his neighbors, all individuals between the ages of 18 and 21, with a smile on the way to the laundry facility on the first floor. He cooks for himself. He cleans up after himself. He's started making googly eyes at a girl, and Lisa might actually be making googly eyes right back. He debugs code at his work station. He makes his bed. He takes a shower every morning.)

(He doesn't feel like he's unable to exhibit agency in his daily life.)

Your social designation has already been processed and sent to our database. Because of these extenuating circumstances, the paperwork was signed and filed for you. You will be transferred to an Empath care facility in Colorado. Your bags are already packed.

(His bags are already packed, and he doesn't get to tell his neighbors, his friends, Lisa, goodbye. The plane takes off from LAX and lands in DEN. It's cramped with other people who have a pin labeled E on their plain white lapels. Waylon doesn't spot another 4.)

_When he turns 28, this is what they tell him:_

Do you want to live here for the rest of your life?

(No, he does not. It isn't bad. There is no squat grey building of only thirty-four stories, but rows and rows of identical white cubes within a tall building, like studio apartments, that surround an inner common area where he must exercise and eat and shower under supervision. They do his laundry for him. He doesn't get to have a coffee pot. Colorado Housing for Empath Care, or CHEC, has no work station. Debugging code is now a hobby maintained under the careful eye of a new Handler. Mr. Ryder doesn't understand why he enjoys staring at nonsensical lines of Python or Ruby or JavaScript, but the big burly man gets a laugh out of how Waylon's eye twitches when his Handler calls it "cute.")

(It isn't bad, but he doesn't want to live here for the rest of his life. It's just. The alternative is—)

Then why do you behave in such an unseemly way?

(Once every four months, CHEC opens its sealed and gated community to the perusal of a more integrated, healthier public. The facility is government funded and is a welcome home for any Empath in need. But it is much preferred that the inhabitants find a more permanent home outside of its safe grounds.)

(They call it the Empath Adoption Program and Waylon hates it with every fiber of his being. Once every four months the Empaths are locked in their cubes for the duration of an entire day, and the milky white walls of his studio room lose their opacity. Basic information about him displays across the outside wall next to his locked door. Like an animal in a zoo. A creature on display.)

(Neat lines of text appear backward from his perspective inside the room. It always reads:

_Waylon Park_  
_28 y.o._  
_Hobbies: debugging code, making espresso, reading, playing video games, watching horror movies_

And at the bottom, in red LED: _**E4**_.)

(Once anyone sees the last clinical piece of information, any curious passerby visibly shakes their head and moves down the line.)

(The first few years, this had frightened him. Waylon would curl up in a ball on his bed and hide beneath the covers for a solid 24 hours. Wouldn't even crawl out from the safety of his navy blue blanket to eat the food brought to his door.)

(After the fright came anger. He'd slam his fists into sturdy glass and yell at the top of his lungs at anyone who dared look him in the eye, even though he figured out pretty quickly the whole room was soundproof and nobody could hear him. He doesn't belong to _anyone_ and he never will. No one seemed particularly scared of his antics. The people with their fancy social standings pinned to their shirts like a point of pride—S for Sociopath, A for Antisocial, C for Controlled—only seemed scandalized. His Handler, only exasperated.)

(Years later, it became a sort of apathetic mischief. Once, he stuck a finger down his throat and threw up in the toilet so he could pretend to be sick all day. Another time, he fogged up the glass with his warm breath and wrote _fuck off_ and _eat my ass_ and _cocksucking sociopaths_ in the hazy canvas left behind.)

(The last time, he whipped his dick out and started jacking off.)

(The walls had not once faltered from their crystal clear opacity, but Ryder had flown into his room in less than a minute, flung a cover over his waist, and calmly reminded him about the importance of proper social conduct, _especially_ during the Program.)

(Waylon had laughed so hard, he didn't even need to spill all over the glass door to discourage anyone looking at him to reconsider adopting such an unhinged thing.)

So we will ask again. Do you want to live here for the rest of your life?

("No," he says, fidgeting his fingers against each other, twining and untwining. But the alternative. It's—)

(To be ripped away from everything he's come to know for the last seven years. To follow a stranger into their home, not knowing what will even happen to him. Will he be a maid? A sex slave? They only ever reassure him that it's nothing quite so dour. That he will simply be in the care of another, like a child, or a pet. A _pet_. The fucking audacity.)

(Waylon Park belongs to no one. Anyone who tells him otherwise can go fuck themselves.)

Good. Then do try to be on your best behavior tomorrow.

("I will.")

(He will not.)  


══════════════════

  
_When he turns 21, this is what they tell him:_

Your brain functions normally. Above average. You are a stepping stone to an ideal society.

(He does not feel pride, only a deliciously smug sense of being right. His social standing has never been a cause for concern. When he was five, he stretched stiffly onto the moving table of an MRI machine and waited placidly while it knocked loudly around him. A classmate had expressed fear after their assessment, her wide eyes not teary but rather nervous. Eddie had listened to the sound of his own steady heartbeat while trapped within that plastic coffin and had not found the machine all that frightening.)

You have a minimal amount of connectivity between the electrical impulses that control your personal feelings, and the empathetic center of your brain.

(He knows this already, so he doesn't affirm it. They ran their tests for most of his adolescent life, both medical and psychological. When he turned five and was placed under the care of the state, a typical upbringing, he had not shivered or cried like the other children, but only felt an anticipatory sense of foreboding. It was the way the world worked. And yet, the fear of the unknown had hung over him.)

(He is not afraid anymore.)

You are a Sociopath, Level 2.

(Level 2? His brow furrows. Because he does not demand the absurd expectation of anyone reading his mood, he asks, clearly and concisely, "Level two?")

Yes. Your brain scans show minimal flickering on empathetic pathways. These are only activated under certain psychological criteria.

(He nods in understanding and raises his hand to accept a small circular pin from his Handler, clipping it to the lapel of his plain white shirt. Ms. Wilkerson has been with him for the duration of these three years at the Transient, so he knows, because she is a Controlled Level 2, the proud smile she fixes to him is still something she works to subdue. It is alright. He would never tattle on her. She had taken interest in him when he first arrived, wide-eyed and unsure where to invest his time, and had offered to show him some of her favorite hobbies. Sewing, art, design. He had taken to them quickly. There was a certain pride in working with his hands.)

Your release forms are waiting in your room for your perusal. If there is anyone you wish to say goodbye to, please do so within the hour.

(There is not. He already knows his strongest social connection, Frank, has no plans to move away. A goodbye is useless when he will see the man tomorrow.)

(After he departs the Transient with a standard stimulus to aid his search for comfortable housing and proper employment, Eddie finds great pleasure in the freedom and opportunities afforded to him. Most S2s and S1s thrive in the field of business, and he supposes he does as well, though he finds working for another an unsuitable waste of talents he developed while living under Ms. Wilkerson's care.)

(He opens a shop in Denver, Colorado for custom tailoring and designer clothes, and finds peace and satisfaction with his profession.)

_When he's 38, this is what Frank Manera tells him:_

"You've never been to the EAP?"

The lanky man's stringy hair settles just above his shoulders when he pushes it back. He fixes Eddie with wide, scoffing eyes.

Eddie raises a thin eyebrow and shakes his head slowly.

"Never," he affirms, casually adjusting the sleeves of a maroon turtleneck. It's cold enough for an autumn coat, but he's always run a little hot and had left the tan bomber back home. "I haven't felt the need to adopt."

"It's not about adopting them. It's about looking at them."

"Looking at them," Eddie repeats blandly.

"Yeah. I mean, they have a few E3s that are kinda interesting to watch."

"Mhm. Don't you have an E3 that you can watch in the comfort of your own home?"

Frank flings his hands into the air, ever a man of motion. "It's different. I mean sure, Sam's a mouthy little shit but I'm still convinced he's been misdiagnosed. Besides, CHEC is the only place in the state with an E4."

Really? Eddie's brows knit together as they walk down the sidewalk. His steps slow.

"I thought that social designation was …" He waves.

"A myth? The nightmare they told us as kids when we were growin up in state care, so we'd be on our _best_ behavior?" Frank supplies, and Eddie nods. "Nah man, I mean. I thought the same thing until last year, when I caught a glimpse of the E4 absolutely putting on a show."

Frank's grin does not bode well, but Eddie can't deny his curiosity.

"What show?"

The wide smile only widens, until Frank tips his head back and laughs.

"He started touching himself behind the glass. Just … just whipped it out and went to town."

Eddie blanches.

"He did _not_."

Frank's laughter magnifies. He seems delighted with Eddie's affronted look. "That pique your interest, Gluskin? Shit, watching that E4 jerk off would probably be the most action you've gotten in a decade, huh?"

Eddie's unamused scowl does not have the desired effect, and soon Frank's laughter devolves into teary-eyed giggles that he wipes on his long sleeve.

"We should go see them," Frank says after composing himself. He straightens the hem of his forest green shirt. Adjusts the tilt of his A2 pin.

"No, you said you'd help me shop for fabric downtown. I need to restock. And I was going to meet with a potential model for my new designs at noon."

Frank grabs him by the upper arm and pulls him in the direction of the parking garage they'd left barely ten minutes ago. "Come on, you have all week to stress over finding the right living doll to dress up for your photoshoot. I want you to see the Empaths."

"I've seen Empaths. You _have_ Empaths," Eddie says, tugging his arm from Frank's grip. It stretches the material of his sweater and he frowns down at pinched merino wool.

"Not like this," Frank says, skittering to the driver's side of his car with a giddy chuckle. "They keep them in these glass boxes, with little info sheets beamed up on the walls. It's like going to the zoo."

Eddie's eyebrows pinch together. He imagines the scene painted for him—rows of Empaths in small clear boxes. Sure, they might be unfit for regular society, but did that really mean they had to be displayed in such a way?

"That seems inhumane."

"Right? Shit, I'd say it's to get more sympathy for them, but most of the people that show up to this thing are Sociopaths and Antisocials. Maybe they just like the aesthetic. Either way, you gotta see it."

Eddie hesitates. He's never felt the urge to visit CHEC when the facility welcomes outsiders. Most people of his social designation adopt Empaths for various reasons. Additional help around the house, or to fulfill a childrearing instinct long dormant. Sometimes, Empaths are used for sexual purposes, though there are strict guidelines for such a thing and if an Empath is unwilling, they are quickly transferred out of the home.

But what would _he_ need an Empath for?

It's a void question. He isn't going to adopt. But it does make him side-eye Frank for a long moment while he tries to reason why his friend looks out for not just one, but two of them.

"Why did you adopt?" he asks, opening the passenger door and settling into the seat with a frown.

Frank starts up the car, tips his head back against the headrest in thought.

"Hm, well. I didn't really plan it. I just saw them and wanted them."

"It sounds like an unnecessary hassle," Eddie says, buckling up.

"Oh, you're not wrong, they can be a handful. But." Frank shrugs, pulling out of the garage and onto the main road. "It's kind of nice. To have someone to come home to."

Eddie's lips pull into a deeper frown.

"You could date. You could marry."

His friend practically cackles at that, and it's bright enough to make Eddie's frown smooth out into a hint of a smile. Frank Manera. _Married._ Ridiculous.

"It's different. Empaths are just—" Frank waves. "—different."  


══════════════════

  
Colorado Housing for Empath Care stands tall and pristine at the center of well-manicured grounds. The wrought iron gate that usually remains firmly shut 362 days out of the year has swung open to allow a long line of cars to pass through. Thick cement walls at least 12 feet tall loom impressively, casting a squat midday shadow onto the grass.

Just getting through the gate takes forever and Eddie laments this absolute waste of time.

They park in the grass and walk down the circle driveway towards the entrance. Pure white and modern, the facility has a certain flair far removed from Eddie's own suburban home, like something out of a sci-fi novel. Purple and blue hydrangeas line the stairs leading up to the front door. Stubby shrubs dot the landscape. They mull about the entrance for another half hour, waiting for their turn inside because the building is already at max capacity. 155 Empaths, Levels 1 through 4, and only 100 outsiders allowed in at a time.

Eddie picks up a brochure while he waits.

_Colorado Housing for Empath Care was founded in 1955. The building underwent several renovations over the decades. It was torn down in 2005 and rebuilt with a streamlined efficiency in mind._

He skims the history, then skips to a section on the back of the pamphlet, "Caring for Your Empath."

_Most Empaths require three meals a day to help regulate their mood._

_An Empath can be easily overwhelmed by outside stimuli. It is best to limit media intake to 5 or less hours a day._

_Your Empath will need assistance with many daily tasks, including cooking, cleaning, and sometimes bathing. With proper conditioning, they can be trained to handle some of these tasks on their own._

_When bringing a new Empath into your home, it is best to maintain a close eye while they acclimate to their new surroundings. Shared sleeping quarters may be necessary for the first few weeks._

_Empaths thrive in social settings with other Empaths. Scheduling regular playdates with E1s, E2s, and E3s can greatly benefit their mental health._

He blinks, re-reading that last bit of advice. E1 through E3. It doesn't mention a Level 4.

The doors open finally and they're ushered inside by a man with a C1 pin stuck on his white uniform. He's tall and deeply tan, with curly brown hair, and he smiles widely, arms open to welcome this fresh group of visitors inside.

"Alright everyone, we're very glad to have you with us today. My name is Dillon Ryder and I'll be your tour guide for the Empath Adoption Program. I know you're all very eager to see the Empaths under our care, but if you will please follow me, we'll get started with a brief tour of our facility."

He starts walking backward, and the large group moves with him.

Eddie folds his brochure and plants it in the back pocket of his tan chinos, trailing behind Frank and tuning out the guide while his eyes soak up his surroundings. The building is laid out in a semicircle, with what appears to be common facilities at the center, surrounded by milky white cubes stacked on top of each other, at least 30 stories up. It's surreal. Clinical.

It would be a good location for a photoshoot.

At the end of the tour, Dillon Ryder claps his hands together, gestures at the rows upon rows of lifeless cubes, and suddenly their white walls unfog like defrost warming an iced over window. 155 rooms. 155 Empaths.

Eddie feels the weight of curious stares. He turns on his heel, tips his head back, and looks up, up, up, at a swarm of faces peering down at the crowd of visitors below. He doesn't have the capacity to feel what they're feeling, but the press of so many eyes weighs heavily on his shoulders and for a brief moment he wonders how anyone can stand this circus of bodies.

This "zoo."

He hates it already.  


══════════════════

  
This time, Waylon pretends to be an animal. Or a madman. Maybe a little of both.

When one person steps close to his room (enclosure, cell, cage, but only for a day, just one day every four months) and reads the information lit up next to the door, he smiles, waves. They don't look. Their eyes on _Waylon Park 28 y.o. Hobbies: debugging code, making espresso, reading, playing video games, watching horror movies **E4**_. But he waits for them to glance up, and the moment they do, he launches himself at the glass wall and bangs his fist into it over and over and over again. He hopes his face looks furious, enraged, unhinged. He just feels like crying.

The wall doesn't even budge. It's too sturdy.

By the fifteenth visitor, his hand hurts. He's probably bruised it.

The thing is, he doesn't want to live at CHEC for the rest of his life. He really doesn't. It isn't hellish but it isn't exactly pleasant. He feels like he's going crazy here. Like a life under scrutiny, of being told about all the things he's _incapable_ of doing, has poked holes inside him until little drips of sanity spill out like water through a colander. But the looks on all these nameless faces are too much to bear. Placid. Scandalized. Pitying. Disgusted. It's a steady rotation and the worst part? The absolute fucking worst part?

Waylon feels what they think about him. Like tiny radio waves seeping through the glass and beneath his skin.

They think he's a freak. The only E4 in the state. Hell, even back in California he hadn't ever heard of another Level 4 Empath. When they broke the news all those years ago, after getting shipped out to Colorado and finally waking from an absolute stupor, he'd demanded an explanation. An excuse. Some reason to tell him _why_.

Why him?

They'd provided him only with an oversimplified information sheet, one page long, detailing the criteria for different social designations.

_The levels of Empath are a direct result of observed behavioral patterns._

_• E1—polite, demure, loyal, compliant_  
_• E2—manageable, sentimental, headstrong, timid_  
_• E3—charismatic, mouthy, abrasive, uncontrollable_  
_• E4—erratic, unpredictable, emotional, untrustworthy_

Erratic. Fuck them.

Unpredictable. Fuck them up the fucking _ass_.

Emotional. He's not— he didn't think that—

Untrustworthy. What does that even fucking _mean?_

The people on the other side of the glass stare and he feels their quiet disdain. He feels that they see him as "other." Less. Dangerous. He feels how hopeless this whole idiotic situation is to even begin with. For years he huddled beneath the blanket, and still no one wanted him. He played nice, once, and it didn't matter. Eyes would catch on that bright red social designation, and the people behind the glass would move on.

He raves and glares now, and he feels the same thing from all these heartless visitors as he had his very first time in the Program.

He isn't worth it.

It doesn't matter.

Waylon Park belongs to no one.

He never will.

It's with this thought planted firmly in his brain that he perks up and stares at a fresh set of visitors, two tall men who approach his room with hesitation. The lankier one steps up close to the door and bends at the waist to peer at Waylon's information displayed next to it. He's thin, with stringy shoulder-length hair and a scruffy beard. The other is taller, broader, with hair buzzed short on the sides and longer up top, pushed back.

A sharp blue gaze doesn't look to the info screen, but directly at Waylon.

An eerie, seething rage sinks into Waylon's stomach. Surprise. No one's ever trained their attention on him _before_ reading up on what, exactly, they were looking at. He's an E4. You don't look an E4 in the eye. E4s are erratic unpredictable emotional untrustworthy. You could set them off. You could disturb them. They could disturb you. They want to disturb you. E4s make no logical sense. They're like animals.

 _You don't look an E4 in the eye_ , and yet, this man _stares_.

Waylon pins the visitor with a flat look, dark brown gaze meeting the other man head on. The guy doesn't so much as flinch. Only steps closer. Tips his head. Gives Waylon a once-over, and Waylon doesn't feel that typical aversion rolling off the man in sickening waves. Just. Curiosity.

His lips curl and he bares his teeth.

The blue eyed man blinks. A confused smile twitches its way to his lips. He covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shake.

He's _laughing_.

Waylon buzzes with unabashed anger. He's being laughed at. Stuck in a cage like an animal. Put on display. Stripped of all sense of self, and this fucking guy has the nerve to find that _funny?_ Waylon flicks his gaze down briefly. Spots an S2 pin. Disgusting. What a disgusting human being. The guy can't even process— doesn't even understand—

Blue eyes flick to Waylon's displayed information, finally, and it's normal, it really is, it's what everyone does (though not ever in this order—looking at him, then looking at his specs), but for some reason it feels like the final straw, and suddenly Waylon's launching himself at the glass. The knuckles on his right hand are bruised but he bangs them furiously against the wall anyways. Again and again. Lips thinned out and pulled back in a toothy snarl.

 _"Fuck you!"_ he screams, and he knows he can't be heard so he over-enunciates it to make sure those two simple syllables can at least be seen. 

He hates this.

He hates this.

He hates this _so much._

What's wrong with him? What's wrong with his brain? Why does everyone think he's some fucked up _thing_ that only holds the capacity to hurt himself, or others? He'd felt like a different man entirely before coming to CHEC. He worked, cleaned, made his own food. He had started to fall in love. He'd made friends. He could think. He is a person capable of thinking.

He is a _person._

In his rage, Waylon barely notices the man in his stupid ugly turtleneck step even closer as if to get a nice long look at his outburst. Fucking fine. Soak it all in. Tell your Sociopath friends tomorrow just how close you got to a fucking E4. Wear it like a badge of honor you sick fuck—

A hand.

On the glass.

Waylon's fist impacts with the clear wall one more time and stays there. He stares at a calm blue gaze. His own eyes widen, startled and frantic. On the other side of the glass, gently curled fingers unfurl just over Waylon's hand. The man tips his head again. It doesn't feel like pity. Just that same curiosity from moments ago, before the guy had covered his mouth to hide a laugh.

If he laughs right now, Waylon will absolutely lose his shit he swears to god.

The other guy, Lanky, stands up straight and looks between them, pointing. He says something to his companion, and the bright eyed guy says something back, frowning, those interested rings of blue narrowing slightly in reaction to unheard words, but he never takes his eyes off Waylon.

Waylon realizes he hasn't moved his hand yet. He pulls it back like it's been burned, cradling the aching fist to his chest. He'd like to say the look he shoots through the clear wall between them is seething and dangerous, but he's convinced the heat on his face lessens the impact.

Why the fuck would this visitor go and do something weird like that? It doesn't make sense. Waylon slinks back to his bed feeling like he's been defeated in a battle he never signed up to fight. He sinks into the sheets and wraps his comforter around his shoulders, staring down at his lap. He can feel the attention of both men outside, but figures they're here for a show, and now all he wants to do is give them the exact opposite of what they want to see.

He doesn't know when they leave. Just knows that by the time he glances back up, they're gone, and a new set of visitors have taken their place.

The rage returns in full force.  


══════════════════

  
By the end of the day, when milling visitors are guided back out of CHEC and only those who have found an Empath to adopt remain to fill out paperwork, Waylon's hand stings and has started to bleed a little. He sits on the edge of the bed and stares at one deep split of skin between purplish-red knuckles. Exhausted. Throat raw from yelling.

He told the Director he would be on his best behavior today. Well. At least he didn't do anything _obscene_. Still, he hadn't exactly kept up his promise, so he isn't all that surprised when Ryder opens his door after lights out and asks Waylon to follow him.

With an overdramatic huff, Waylon hops out of bed and pats down the creases in his white cotton pants and white t-shirt. Usually the Director calls for him the morning after and he's ushered into a private meeting room completely alone. That familiar voice crackles on a mounted speaker, calmly detailing everything he's done wrong, every flaw he intrinsically possesses, and the inevitable loss of one or two privileges usually follows. Like, no dessert for a week. Or no outside exercise. The worst is when they take away his hobbies—his books, or his access to the computer in the common room.

This time, they don't even wait until morning.

He'll probably get the worst punishment and is already bemoaning the maddening lack of having nothing to entertain himself with for a week, when Ryder catches a glimpse of his slowly bleeding knuckles. Waylon pulls his hand to his mouth and licks the blood off just to see what Ryder will do.

The guy just shakes his head.

Boring.

He's walked to the front of the building towards the administrative offices. Ryder waves him inside of a windowless room with barren walls and Waylon sits down on a creaky white chair set up next to a flimsy table. It's plastic. He thrums his fingers against it. His Handler returns shortly after with antiseptic and gauze, and fixes Waylon's hand up quickly without asking questions.

Then, oddly enough, Ryder stays. The burly guy settles into a chair next to him and it creaks louder than Waylon's had. Waylon blinks over at him, brows knit in confusion, and Ryder grins brightly at him, like he's—

Excited.

About something.

… Is his Handler happy that he's about to be punished?

Waylon barely has time to process this question before the door opens again and a tall, broad man in some stupid maroon turtleneck steps inside.

_Him._

Immediately, Waylon's hackles rise. He tenses, gripping the edge of the table until his fingers turn white. He recognizes _this fucking guy_ from earlier in the day. The one who had stared at him, who had placed his hand on the glass wall like that was just a fucking thing to do. Who had laughed. The image of those bright blue eyes had burned themselves into Waylon's brain for a good long while after the visitor left.

"Waylon."

He jumps at the sound of Ryder's voice, knocking his knee against the underside of the table. It jolts the cheap plastic thing. The stranger watches him while he rounds it and settles down gracefully in a chair across from them. His seat doesn't creak at all.

Asshole.

"Waylon, this is Eddie Gluskin. He's interested in adopting you. Isn't that exciting?"

One breath.

Two.

No one says _gotcha_. It isn't April Fool's Day. These facts are more confusing than what Ryder just said.

"What?"

Waylon's voice is scratchy from all the yelling earlier. He tries to clear it but that only makes it feel worse. Eddie fucking Gluskin won't stop staring at him. Waylon won't stop staring right back. It's a matter of principle at this point.

"Yes, well. Usually we would fill out your paperwork and you'd be on your way. But Mr. Gluskin wanted to meet with you personally first. To—" Ryder glances at Waylon, then over to Gluskin. "—go over details, I assume?"

On the other side of the table, Eddie shakes his head slowly, says, "I wanted to ask his permission."

He wait what now.

The world is really unfair. Because the weird fucking asshole visitor from earlier today actually happens to have a nice, soothing voice ( _fuck him_ , Waylon hates it), and not only that, but he's saying some ridiculously delirious things.

Permission?

What in the actual fuck?

Waylon whips his head around to stare at Ryder. His Handler's giving Gluskin the same confused look that's no doubt mirrored on his own face.

"Ah," Ryder begins, his wide smile faltering. "You must understand, Waylon doesn't have the capacity to make this decision on his own. He's a Level Four Empath, so—"

"I understand what his social designation is, yes," Eddie interrupts. He flicks a bright blue gaze over to Ryder and it's the first time the guy's eyes have left Waylon since he stepped into the room. "Could I speak with him privately?"

"I, uh." Ryder stumbles over his answer, turning a pointed gaze back to Waylon. "That should be fine. Yes. I don't see why not."

Translation: _Don't mess this up. You've been here for 7 years. This is the first person who's expressed interest in adopting you. Waylon, behave._

His Handler stands. Pushes his chair back beneath the table with an intrusive screech of metal legs on linoleum flooring. Hesitates with his hand on the doorknob.

"Just knock for me when you're done. I'll be right outside if you need anything."

And with one final, lingering look shot Waylon's way, Ryder slips out, leaving him alone with the weirdest fucking Sociopath Waylon's ever seen, sitting stoicly on the other side of the table. Waylon pins wide eyes to the shut door and keeps them there until the sound of a cleared throat has him jerking his head back to stare at the other man in the room.

"Permission?" he blurts out, unable to contain himself any longer. "You want _my_ fucking permission?"

Eddie stares at him, attention roving from the top of messy blonde hair down to the light stubble on Waylon's chin. Opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out. He hates it, being looked at. He hates the way this tall fuck looks at him, not through him. He hates that they're alone together. He hates that this stupid Sociopath wants to adopt him.

Fuck that.

No, _absolutely fuck that_.

Waylon doesn't belong to anyone.

"Yes," Gluskin finally responds, and that one word fills Waylon's blood with heat and anger. He's ready to fight again. Ready to throw fists. Only this time, there isn't a thick glass wall between them. Waylon's never lashed out physically before. He's never felt the same sort of biting anger for his Handlers as he does those sick fucking visitors that pile into CHEC once every four months. But now he's alone in a room with one, instead of locked safely away.

He wonders what sort of punishment he'll be moored with for getting into a fist fight with a Sociopath.

It's … funny. The idea of it. Of slamming his already bruised knuckles into this guy's fucking marble sculpted jaw. S2. The social designation pin sticks out against the neck of Gluskin's sweater. A superior human. Above average.

It just means the guy can't feel Waylon's biting rage rolling off him in waves. He'd never see it coming. "Superior." More like clueless. What a fucking joke.

Waylon hiccups the slightest hint of a laugh. He slams both hands over his mouth, the one wrapped in gauze on top. But it's too late. A laugh stumbles out of him, muted behind trembling fingers. Another one, and another. He sucks in deep breaths through his nose, trying to dam up that particular swell of crazy.

He's not okay.

Once Waylon rangles his laughter back under control, he's left feeling exhausted. He just wants to go back to his room, drag himself beneath his heavy navy blue blanket, and go to sleep for the next few days. Slowly, he removes both hands from his mouth. Scrubs the bandaged one over his cheek. Leans both elbows heavily on the table.

"Why?"

Eddie blinks at him, seemingly taken off guard by the question. The guy stares for too long. Like he has no fucking clue how much is too much.

Yeah, it's definitely too much.

Almost tentatively, Eddie replies, "Why … do I want to adopt you?"

The anger returns.

Waylon stays crumpled against the table, but shoots off a glare that could melt steel. The longer he stares at the Sociopath across the table, the more he takes in every miniscule tick. How Eddie dips a finger into the tall neck of his sweater and adjusts it slightly. How he doesn't plant his elbows on the table, but keeps his hands folded neatly in his lap. How his attention doesn't waver, but his mouth changes from a blank flat line, to a frown, to a lower lip sucked inward so he can nibble on it.

Anxious?

Nervous?

Fuck him, Eddie has no idea what that feels like. No fucking clue. Try living in a glass box with hundreds of strangers staring at you like a bug pinned to a piece of cork, you stupid fucking Sociopath.

"Yes," he finally answers, throat clicking with the effort to speak. "Why do you want my permission? Why did you laugh earlier? Why do you want—"

_Me._

Waylon cuts himself off. He leans into his bandaged hand now, loose fist smooshing against his cheek. Pushes all that inner heat and frustration and annoyance through his gaze and right into the other man's skin. He knows Eddie won't feel it.

The silence stretches for an unreasonable amount of time. Eddie breaks it with an idiotic fucking question.

"That last one. What were you going to say?"

Waylon blinks.

That's right. S2. The parts that process empathy might as well be dead in his brain. But still.

"Are you stupid? Can't you infer?"

Eddie's brows furrow. If the guy's waiting for some kind of explanation, they'll be there all night. Waylon doesn't say anything else. Just continues to look at him, pouring his distaste into the gaze in the hopes it will dispel some of the painful anger in his chest. After what feels like hours, Eddie responds again.

"I don't want to adopt an Empath. Well. I mean, I didn't. I had no intention of coming here today and leaving with someone else in my care."

He pauses long enough to pull his lower lip between his teeth and bite down gently. Waylon's gaze follows the motion before flicking back up to those bright blue eyes. The guy opens his mouth to say something else, but Waylon interrupts him.

"Then why did you come here?"

He already knows the answer.

Eddie at least has the common sense to look abashed. His eyes widen minutely and he ducks his head for a moment before looking back up.

"I … came with a friend. He insisted."

"Mhm. And why did you listen? You're that easily swayed?"

"I—" The man pauses. Takes a deep breath. Shakes his head. "I was curious. I've never been to the EAP before. I wanted to see what it was like."

There it is. He came to gawk. To look at the Empaths trapped in their cages like animals on exhibit. Waylon's mouth twists into a smug little half-smirk. What a fucking asshole.

"What did you think? Pretty nice, right? Everything's so clean and organized. I heard they hand out snacks for the visitors. I wouldn't know, being, y'know—" Waves his hand flippantly. "—locked up against my will, but whatever. Must've been fun for you, right?"

Eddie's features pinch suspiciously before they smooth out.

"I hated it."

Waylon narrows his eyes.

"Liar," he says, straightening up and leaning back in his seat. He crosses his arms casually over his chest.

The guy looks outright affronted by the accusation. He does that thing again where he opens his mouth and doesn't say anything for a moment. Eddie watches him for a while, as if trying to decipher the foreign language Waylon speaks.

"I hated it," he says again, speaking slowly as if trying to find the best way to form his thoughts into words. "It was sterile. Impersonal. And … inhumane."

"Inhumane," Waylon repeats with a scoff. He doesn't believe it. In no world can a Level 2 Sociopath understand the meaning of inhumane, let alone give a shit about whether or not a few Empaths are treated in such a way. Still, the guy looks convincingly uncomfortable, which really? Just lights up Waylon's whole world right now.

He wants this guy to be so uncomfortable he changes his mind about this whole "adoption" thing.

(He doesn't want to live at CHEC for the rest of his life, but the alternative is—)

"Alright. So why did you laugh earlier?"

Eddie squirms in his seat. Oh, it's a subtle tell. Eyes cut to the side staring diligently at the white linoleum floor. The way his shoulders dip forward, messing up that otherwise perfect posture, then realign moments after. Definitely squirming. Good.

The guy clears his throat again, biding time, but Waylon's patient. All he has is patience. Living life on someone else's schedule, only allowed to do certain things at certain times, has fostered an almost eerie calm in him when he has to sit and wait.

"You bared your teeth at me," Eddie says, and Waylon quirks an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain just what's so fucking funny about that. The man flicks his gaze back up, pinning Waylon to the spot. He opens his mouth. Doesn't say anything. Weird habit.

"Yeah, and?" Waylon waves flippantly, goading him to continue.

"When you did that, I couldn't help but notice your bone structure. The line of your cheekbones. The shape of your jaw. I've been in search of someone with your look and it seemed painfully serendipitous. So. I laughed."

_In search of someone with …_

"You want a sex slave." It isn't a question. Waylon points an accusatory finger across the table.

Eddie startles, blinking wide eyes at him. He straightens up even further, hands rising, floundering.

"What? _No._ I would never—"

"You _just_ said you've been looking for someone with my— my bone structure or some shit. Which, by the way, is really fucking creepy."

"I didn't mean it like—"

"Jesus Christ. No. No! I'm not looking to get fucked. I don't want to fuck you, so if I actually do get a say in this, then my answer is—"

Eddie presses a hand into his hair, hunches over the table, and lets out an unhappy sigh.

"I'm a fashion designer. I make clothing and I need someone to model it."

Oh.

Huh.

Waylon stops. Looks down at himself. Reaches up to touch the sides of his face. His nose. His lips. Glances back up, hands dropping to the table to flex and twitch between them.

"You want _me_ for that?"

Eddie hesitates, then nods.

"Why?" Waylon asks. That might be all he's been asking, but it's a relevant question. This still feels like a dream. Half of him is waiting to wake up.

"Like I said, you have the right bone structure. And. You have a look in your eye."

A look in his eye.

The look currently expressed in Waylon's dark brown gaze is nothing short of disbelieving. It can't be that simple. He's been here for 7 fucking years and no one's given him the time of day. They take one look at his social designation and deem him too much of a hassle. No one's filed paperwork. No one's ever met with him like this.

He stares at Eddie long and hard, waiting for the man to crumple beneath the weight of his ire. It doesn't happen. Eddie just stares right back.

"Are you sure it's not some weird sex thing?"

An exasperated huff flies past the other man's lips. He rubs his eyes, shakes his head.

"Yes, Waylon. I'm sure."

"What happens if I say yes?"

The words slip out suddenly. Waylon belongs to no one. But.

Alright, hear him out.

He's sick and tired of this fucking place. It's not bad. It isn't. He kinda likes Ryder. He's made friends with some of the other Empaths, even if tangentially (they mostly keep their distance, as if E4 is a stain that could rub off on them). But he's not allowed off the grounds. Hasn't even seen the city yet. It's been the same white walls and manicured grass for almost a decade at this point and Waylon's not sure how much longer he can stick around before he actually loses his fucking mind.

He doesn't belong to anyone. He doesn't _want_ to belong to anyone. But.

This guy's offering him freedom, of a sort, and Waylon honestly doesn't know when he'll get another chance at that. Not without pretending to be something he's not—easy, agreeable, obedient, all the adjectives that describe the exact opposite of who he is.

Eddie's seen it. Saw him snarl and bang against the glass. And now the guy wants to adopt him. As a model.

Unbelievable.

Eddie tilts his head, hand falling primly back to his lap.

"Well. They explained the details to me a moment ago. If I adopt you, you will pack your personal belongings and I will pick you up in the morning. You'll move in with me and I— I suppose you will be under my care from now on."

Under his care. What a disgustingly clean way to put it. Waylon hates himself for appreciating the wording. Gluskin could've said anything, called it what it is— _I'll own you_ —but he doesn't and that's—

Something.

Right?

Slowly, Waylon cups his hands over his face and leans down low enough to make contact with the table. He's tired. God, he's so tired. Of everything. Of living like this. Of this ridiculous conversation. He just wants to sleep. Not because he's sleepy, but because he's whittled down into a shell, and not being awake right now sounds like the best thing in the world.

"Why ask for my permission? Why not just take me?"

Barely a mumble, but the words slink their way through his fingers all the same. He doesn't look up, but there's a soft calmness resonating from the other side of the table, and Waylon despises the way every atom in his body leans closer to this unwitting source of comfort.

"Because," that soothing voice says, sounding a little surprised, a little disarming. "You're a person. You should get a say in what happens to you."

God fucking dammit.

"Alright," Waylon says, scrubbing at his face to keep that prickle of heat behind his nose from turning into actual tears. Ridiculous. This whole situation. It's fucking stupid and he hates it. He straightens abruptly. Pins Eddie with a sharp look. "Okay. Yeah, sure. My answer is yes. On one condition."

He points a finger again, mouth set into a grim line.

"No weird sex stuff."

Eddie laughs. A light sound. Airy. Like he's releasing tension wound tightly around his bones.

"Of course."  


══════════════════

  
That night, Waylon gets no sleep. He lies awake in bed staring at the white ceiling of his small studio room, the walls now milky and solid in their opacity. Disjointed thoughts shimmer and float through his head like tadpoles in a pond.

They consist of:

All of the things he should have asked Eddie Gluskin before leaving that lifeless room.

(Where do you live? What does your house look like? Do I get to go grocery shopping with you? Do I get to leave? Do they reprogram the tracker beneath my skin to change my "point of origin" to your home? Do you have a coffee pot? Do you have a yard? Do you anger easily? Are you a gentle guy? Will you hurt me?)

All of the things he should have asked Dillon Ryder before has was handed a canvas duffel bag and locked away in his own room:

(What are my personal belongings? Do I pack the clothes CHEC gave me? The books? My favorite movies in the common room? This succulent you got for my birthday last year? Do I even own anything?)

At 3am, Waylon shuffles off the bed and stows away an assortment of things that he's not entirely sure are actually his.

(White shirts and white cotton pants, the succulent, and the navy blue comforter rolled up in a tight ball.)

He lies back down on empty sheets and waits for his life to change.

He's been waiting for 7 years.

It doesn't feel long enough.


End file.
